The Ava Watson Verse 6: Crush it 'till the petals fall
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: In the aftermath of the second roof meeting, Sherlock must work out how he is going to get his family back. Sequel to Nest Among the Stars and part of the Ava Watson Verse.
1. November

Crush it 'till the petals fall.

**November**

**AN: As you may have all noticed, I did not end up editing RoS. I am hoping to start doing that over the summer when I have a bit more free time.**

**At the moment I would say this is going to be updates once every two weeks.**

* * *

The crisp air was suffocatingly refreshing. One could almost understand why doctors had once believed fresh air to be the cure for all ills.

If only that were the case.

Still, the weather had brought a few tourists and some locals out to enjoy the cold blue sky and miraculous lack of rain.

At the edge of the path, Mycroft stood and watched.

It had been two weeks since Molly and Chris had properly taken Ava into their home. The three of them were walking through the park, Ava bundled in a coat and scarf that Mycroft had provided and a neat little coat that Molly had bought last Thursday on impulse on her way home.

He had intended to 'accidently' bump into the three as they were out for a Sunday stroll in order to inspect Ava's well-being, but Mycroft now found himself unwilling to walk over.

It should be Sherlock holding her hand. John listening to her chatter. Mycroft trying to settle her hat properly on her unruly curls.

A childish reaction, even he could admit that. Too much time spent with Sherlock…

With a sigh, Mycroft turned and continued down the path, leaving the makeshift family to their leisurely walk around Green Park.

If only Sherlock were behaving like a brat. That at least would be comforting in its familiarity. Instead, Mycroft had a stranger in his house. A quiet, silent stranger who looked barely anything like his brother, who stared at nothing.

It had been almost a month.

Still, Mycroft could take small victories. It had almost been a month since Sherlock had last dosed himself, and almost three weeks since he had started attending sobriety meetings. Not that Mycroft expected that to last once Sherlock's spark was back.

When, he said to himself firmly as he got in the car. Not if.

* * *

"You saw them."

It wasn't a question.

Looking over at his brother's thin and tired face, Mycroft nodded. "They were in the park," he said easily. "Picking up conkers I believe."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Timothy said you had eaten," Mycroft added, approaching his brother warily as his mind replayed his cook's worried debrief about the lunch Sherlock had picked at. "Did you feel like joining me for dinner?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

Assuming that was the end to the conversation – a lengthy one in comparison to other attempts at communication recently - Mycroft turned to call down for supper.

"Was she laughing?"

Mycroft hesitated.

It was enough that Sherlock shook his head and looked out of the window. "Why are you doing this?" he asked dully. "Why bother? They are better off without me."

"I do not believe that," Mycroft said slowly. "I cannot believe that after what I have seen you do this year. The man you were becoming-"

"It's been a year," Sherlock murmured, cutting him off as if his words were of no consequence. "A year since they moved in. Since you bribed John and forced him back to me."

It almost made Mycroft want to roll his eyes. "I hardly forced him back, Sherlock."

Sherlock's head rested against the window, his breath fogging the view of the darkening streets beyond. "How can it already have been a year?" he asked the night.

Mycroft gave up for the time being, relatively sure that Sherlock barely needed him to keep the conversation going.

* * *

The violin would have survived the fire had it not been for Sherlock's enraged attack on the flat. From what they had found, Sherlock had broken the thing against the wall, his hands covered in cuts and splinters and burns from the night.

Sherlock hadn't so much as glanced at the replacement Mycroft bought.

Music had always soothed Sherlock. Listening to it did very little to help his mood, but playing had always done wonders, given him something to focus on as he composed.

It was eerie some days just how still Sherlock could be now. His usual whirlwind nature seemed to have turned to ash and he could be mistaken for a statue most days, but for his eyes.

Always watching.

Mycroft would have sold Scotland to know what was going on his head.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft sighed. "The same," he said with some disappointment. "You can try again if you wish."

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know how you cope, watching him like this," he said, inspecting Sherlock's shadow against the window.

It was so quiet that there was no doubt Sherlock could hear their conversation, but his brother seemed to have little care about what was being said.

"The fire?" Mycroft asked, closing the door and ushering Lestrade to the study.

"Closed," Lestrade said, relaxing slightly. "It helped that you paid for the damages and that the insurance company didn't have to pay out. Mrs Hudson has kept quiet about the whole thing. We've limited it as much as possible."

Mycroft nodded. "It won't impact upon the custody issue?"

Lestrade glanced back at the door. "That will be the least of your problems," he said quietly.

"I have to believe he will snap out of this."

Lestrade hissed in frustration. "Out of being practically suicidal? Yeah, people often just wake up one day and decide to be happy."

Mycroft glared at him. "What do you suggest I do? Hand over a needle and be done with it?"

"Annoy him," Lestrade suggested. "Drag him back to the world kicking and screaming. Find something to make him care."

"Ava is with Miss Hooper and seemingly adjusting, John is in prison and refusing visitors. What would you have me do?" Mycroft hissed.

"Get him to fight for them," Lestrade suggested.

Mycroft rubbed his finger across his brow, exhausted with the topic he had dissected over and over again in his mind. "He believes it to be an impossible task. He has given up."

Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "Then you're doing nothing but keeping a ghost alive," he said, standing up. "I'll see myself out."

Mycroft watched the door for an age afterwards.

* * *

Like a child, Sherlock went to bed at ten. Not to sleep, mind; he simply moved rooms and swapped his perch by the window for curling up against the wall.

In all his life, Mycroft wasn't sure he had ever been more terrified as he carefully placed a bottle of pills on the bedside table.

The precise, dull noise had Sherlock turn his head a little.

"If you swallow all of these, you will never wake up," Mycroft said, finger resting upon the lid.

Silence.

"I presume there is some catch," Sherlock said, turning his head back.

"No. If you take them you will die."

He waited.

Slowly, Sherlock sat up, turning to rest his back against the pillows as Mycroft released the bottle. His little brother picked it up and examined the contents.

"What would you like me to say to them?"

"To who?" Sherlock asked, turning the bottle in his hands thoughtfully. The new skin where the burns were healing was still pink, but there wouldn't be any vivid permanent scarring.

"To John and Ava."

Sherlock's gaze snapped up.

Mycroft sat down softly on the edge of the bed softly. "Should I tell him it was his fault? That his harsh words drove you to it?"

Sherlock looked away.

"And should I explain to Ava that, despite her questions, no one will be coming for her for years to come?"

Sherlock shook his head a little before pressing his lips together.

"Then how shall I tell them? What shall I say to explain why you chose to take your life rather than fight for them?"

"I have lost them." Sherlock's voice cracked on the statement. "I will not get them back."

"What about back to each other?"

Sherlock's throat bobbed as he blinked up at Mycroft. "You can do that," he muttered, looking suddenly unsure.

"Why would I? They aren't my family. You are."

"Grant me my last request," Sherlock said as he rolled the bottle in his hand. The pills clattered in the quiet room.

"Think about it," Mycroft said. He gathered his courage and stood. "They will need more help than I would give."

Sherlock's hand tightened around the bottle, his knuckles turning white.

Mycroft bent to his brother and kissed his hair. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he whispered, praying it wouldn't be the last time.

* * *

In the morning he listened at the door, hoping to hear some sign, something that would confirm-

Nothing.

Feeling sick, Mycroft slowly opened the door.

The pills were still on the table and Sherlock was gone.

* * *

In the darkness of morning, Sherlock sat on the pavement opposite 221, across from the scaffolding and the new sign for Speedy's. The original one had been damaged from the heat.

_Burn away the rest._

Leaning against the dark rails behind him, Sherlock watched a sheet flapping, tugged at by the bitter November breeze until the bottom slipped and he had a glimpse of what was beyond.

It was almost empty. Anything that could have been salvaged had been and, according to Mycroft, most of what couldn't be was a result of Sherlock's destructive rampage.

Had John's empty chair survived?

Flashes of the flat were visible where the sheet billowed and flapped. New plaster, new floors-

The stain would have gone then.

Sherlock closed his eyes, not even opening them when he felt someone sit next to him.

"Look what you did to my bloody flat."

It almost made him smile. "You should go in," he said opening his eyes. "It's cold."

Mrs Hudson was wrapped up against the weather though, an odd collection of clothes that indicated she'd thrown them on quickly. "So should you," she said with a pointed glare at his thin shirt.

He shook his head.

"When will it be available for the new tenants?"

"You paid for the year," she said with a stubborn nod. "You can go back in whenever you like. It's your mess, young man."

It was.

"Hardly a mess," Sherlock murmured. "There's nothing there."

"Sometimes you need a spring clean," she said, shifting as the wind whistled past.

Sherlock shook and ducked his head down to his knees. Moments later she had wrapped an arm around him.

"I don't…" He lifted his head to stare at the flat. "Am I just meant to move back and carry on?"

"I suppose you could stay with Mycroft for the rest of your life."

He looked at her in disgust and disbelief.

"There you are," she said gently, stroking at his hair. "There's that rude, arrogant, wonderful boy that swore to me no one would ever lay a hand on me again without paying the price."

Sherlock shook his head. "That person…he doesn't have a family," he said staring up at the flat. "He can't. It's not his nature. But…" Tears threatened to blur his vision. "I wanted it," he whispered. "I want them home."

Mrs Hudson pulled him close and let him turn into her neck. "We all change," she said softly. "We are who we are but we learn patience or strength. We learn to enjoy the silence or give others the biggest slice of cake. We learn to compromise and give."

"I hate silence," Sherlock muttered.

"You hate it because it means no one's there," she corrected. "Years ago you wouldn't have even noticed."

"It's too much," Sherlock said slowly. "I am not...the process…it would be slow and careful." He looked up at the sky. "I am not capable of it."

"Nonsense, as long as you try," Mrs Hudson said gently, "there is a possibility you might get them back. You could get Ava back. Mycroft has all the steps in place."

"John…I'd need John's approval." Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, he certainly won't give it if you spend your mornings out here, freezing to death on the pavement," she scolded.

"You didn't see him," Sherlock whispered. "And she's happy with Molly-"

"But she isn't home."

Sherlock winced and pulled away.

"Six years," she said as he stood. "If it turns out to be that long, Sherlock, Ava will be without a father for six years."

He paused and stared down at the ground. "He'll take her away," Sherlock said, swallowing. "When he gets out. He'll take her back."

"Or he might see you try, he might see you giving him what he hoped for and come home."

It hurt to hope.

"Try," she said gently. "If in six years' time you feel the same, I'll do exactly what your brother did last night."

"He texted you," Sherlock sighed, staring up at the lightening sky.

"He texted everyone."

Oh excellent. Though Sherlock supposed it wasn't exactly news that he was suicidal after he had set light to the flat while still in it.

Try.

"What I said to you," he began, turning around.

"Go home," she scolded. "Get warm. You and I are fine."

"You're not…" He struggled for a moment. "...my landlady," he said after a moment. Uselessly.

But she understood. An amused, relieved smile crossed her lips. "Nor your housekeeper," she added, nodding to the road. "Go to your brother."

* * *

"I've rescheduled your meeting," Mycroft said once Sherlock was in the car.

"Meeting?"

"The sobriety one."

"You make it sound like a business meeting," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft said nothing but seemed determined to stare at Sherlock as if soaking his appearance in.

Try.

"Reschedule it again," Sherlock said. "Drop me off there."

Mycroft tilted his head and obediently phoned. When he finished, he looked up at Sherlock.

"Why didn't you?" he asked. It sounded as if the words were being dragged from him.

"There's always next month," Sherlock said, looking out the window. "We'll see how this one goes."

* * *

Next Chapter: Whine about your problems.


	2. Letters

Letters

If Sherlock were truly honest with himself he had not paid an ounce of attention to the meetings Mycroft insisted he go to.

Sitting in the circle, actually listening, made him wish he hadn't bothered.

They started with Cameron this week.

"I ain't got a job, see, and me mates are out. It was just meant to be a laugh and then..." Cameron scratched his nose. "S'pensive stuff," he said, playing for a slight chuckle. "Then me girlfriend says she's pregnant and I gotta get me act together-"

Sherlock tilted his head and pressed his lips together.

"I tried, right, but she ain't been there, she don't know what it's like. She took me boy-"

"My."

Slowly, the faces turned from Cameron to Sherlock, looking baffled.

"What?" Cameron sneered.

"My boy," Sherlock breathed, bored. "Not 'me boy'."

Cameron faltered, clearly lost as to what the problem was. "It's my turn to speak."

"Then speak correctly," Sherlock muttered, turning his head to the ceiling. "It's bad enough listening to you whinge without you using poor grammar to do so."

There was a stunned silence.

"Did you 'ear what he just said?" Cameron demanded of Alan, the group leader.

"We'll hear from you after Cameron, Sherlock," Alan said, watching Sherlock with something that looked like approval.

"Nah," Cameron said, folding his arms. "What's his story then? We ain't heard it. Posh boy sits there every session not saying a word."

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

Fine then.

"My partner shot a man who was attempting to throw our daughter off a roof, was jailed for it, our daughter traumatised. I lost my job, my career and used. My partner ended our relationship, I lost custody of our daughter and now I have to listen to ingrates whine about their problems." Sherlock sighed. "It's a miracle I haven't used again this week."

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

Surprised, Sherlock snapped his gaze to the girl…Jazmin, was it?

"In the news," she added. "Your partner shot that man when no one else could do it. He saved your life."

"He shot a man," Evan said from across the room. "He deserved to be imprisoned."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at him.

"What, so he should have just let them die?" another, though slightly more intelligent, dullard piped up

As the debate started, Sherlock slowly slumped back against his chair and closed his eyes while Alan attempted to settle the group back down.

How good of them all to debate his life as if they had any idea.

"So…" Alan said slowly once the group quietened. "You used because of the hopeless situation?"

"God no," Sherlock murmured. "I tried to kill myself for that. I used because I was bored."

Silence.

When he opened his eyes, they all looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"I've lost track," Sherlock breathed, looking over at Alan. "Is this the drug support group or the suicide support one?"

"Drugs," Alan said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ah."

* * *

They gave him a badge.

One month.

It seemed more mocking than encouraging.

One whole month of staying alive.

Or sober.

One of the two.

* * *

_Dear Ava,_

Sherlock stared at the words as he tapped his pen on the page.

_Dear Ava,_

_I wish you were demanding to come here, forcing Molly to drop you off and never pick you up. I wish your father would break out and we could all run away. I had narrowed it down to a list of three countries, though I do need to check how well your father adjusted to a completely different alphabet when he was stationed in Afghanistan. Alternatively we could travel the world together and I could show you the sights I saw while committing seven counts of murder. None of which I was imprisoned for. There's a lovely spot in Paris where I slid a knife into a man as if he were made of the disgusting soft cheese you scoff down by the bucket load._

_Do tell Molly I said to be prompt. I despise waiting for other people._

The empty page mocked him.

_Dear Ava,_

_I miss you. Come home now. I do not care about courts and laws and petty nonsense. You should be at home. I should be at home. Your father should be at home and the world can go hang itself if it dislikes the notion._

Annoyed, he threw the pen at the wall and closed his eyes.

* * *

_Dear Ava,_

_I know that you must be confused. I haven't been well and Mycroft is looking after me while I get better. I am starting to improve and hope that we can see each other soon._

_I have been told that you are staying with my friend Molly Hooper and her husband to be-_

He paused.

He didn't want her to be happy with them. He wanted her to be happy with him. What if she liked it there and didn't want to come back?

But what if he couldn't get her back?

_-and I hope that you have been continuing your spellings with them. I will be most displeased if you have forgotten how to spell idiocy after you asked me to teach it to you._

There. That was at least normality, he supposed. Perhaps over time he could start to lie better about it.

_I am-_

_I feel it is essential that you know-_

He paused, trying to see the line in his head, refusing to make a mistake on the letter.

Anything he wrote sounded like goodbye.

_I will see you soon._

_All my-_

No. That was a lie. Why did people say 'all my love' to others? And saying 'half of my love' didn't sound right either…

He tapped the pen onto the paper a few times before giving up and just scrawling his name.

_Sherlock._

* * *

That night he lay in bed and stared at the badge.

What the hell was he meant to do with it?

* * *

"Is John still refusing visitors?"

Mycroft looked up and over his paper. "That is not wise," he said slowly.

"Rest assured, Mycroft, my question to you will never be 'do you think my plan is a good idea'. I know your default answer without wasting my breath. Answer the actual question I posed to you."

The paper was placed carefully on the table and folded. "I do not know," Mycroft confessed. "It has been some weeks since I tried."

Oddly, that made Sherlock shift nervously. "He was that adamant?"

Mycroft's jaw ticked. "My brother was on suicide watch for weeks. Tell me when I was meant to be chasing after John Watson and soothing his foul mood."

* * *

_Dear Sherlock._

_I hope your feeling better. Molly said you were very sick and that you were also very sad. Does it mean your not sad anymore? I don't want you to be sad._

_I like Molly. She has pretty hair like Mrs Parker and she has to stand on her toes to give Chris a kiss. They are getting married next month and I get to be a bridesmaid. And Molly wants to no if you can come to the wedding. There will be cake and it won't be sad. If you don't feel well I'll look after you._

_Love you._

_Ava._

_p.s. idiocy._

* * *

Sherlock read the letter what felt like a hundred times and kept it in his pocket.

_Dear Ava,_

_Your letter made me feel much, much better, you're a lovely writer. Ask Molly to explain the difference between your and you're. She was always the best in her department in regards to grammar._

_I will certainly attend the wedding and I most definitely will not be unwell during it. Indeed I am already looking forward to seeing you._

_Now, I have a favour to ask of you. A very important one._

_I need a letter from you to show your father. As long as you can manage telling him all about what you have been up to and any stories you have that might make him smile._

_Sherlock._

_PS. Well remembered._

* * *

Some days it felt as if Ava's letters were all that kept him sane. The only part of life he looked forward to.

Which was frustrating when she was six years old and was hardly going to spend all day writing to him.

"You need a hobby," Mycroft said gently.

"I had one," Sherlock said, staring at the empty fireplace. Mycroft had cleaned all of them out in some ridiculous paranoid fit. "You disapproved."

Mycroft glared at him. "Pick something sensible then."

* * *

The last time he tried to distract himself with a project he had burned through them all at the speed of light. This time he felt almost unsure as he wandered around the library Mycroft kept.

So much choice, yet everything required something Sherlock wasn't sure he had.

Patience.

* * *

He hid it from Mycroft.

A tiny potted plant, a seed placed into a small pot and set by his bed. Every night, as he turned off the light he stared at the soil that never seemed to change.

But there were changes. Assuming he wasn't killing the damn thing, life would be starting to unfurl, to reach out roots and chance a stalk towards the light.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I hope you're feeling better still. I had a cold this week and Molly gave me soup. Have you tried having soup? It helps a bit but I don't like the red soup. It's not nice._

_I have started my letter to Daddy. Molly says I should write every day so that Daddy can see what I'm doing. It's going to be very long._

_Love_

_Ava_

* * *

It occurred to him three days after he got her letter that he had never taught her how to play the violin. He'd intended to, but things had happened and-

An unforgivable slip of the mind.

* * *

It was a little after midnight and Sherlock hadn't gone to lie in bed. Instead, he stood, hand barely touching the grain of the table as he stared at the case upon it.

Slowly he circled it, his fingers drawing the faintest sound from the wood as the wind rustled outside.

It felt quiet.

Strange.

It wasn't silent. He knew himself well enough to know that _before_ he'd preferred extremes; noise or no noise. Not the whisperings and simple sounds of life going on.

It seemed like an oddly big step to risk breaking that.

But Ava wanted to learn.

Swallowing, Sherlock opened the case.

A violin; perfectly polished and painfully expensive, even for Mycroft. The weight wasn't yet comfortable or familiar, he thought as he picked it up, but there was something about resting it under his chin that settled him.

He hovered the bow over the strings, hesitating and suddenly unsure what noise would sing from the instrument.

He pulled the bow across the strings.

One single note.

Lowering both the violin and the bow, he stared at them both in his hands.

Then lifted them again, back into position and played Ave Maria.

* * *

Hidden in the shadows, Mycroft watched and listened, in his hand a visitor's pass.

* * *

Next Chapter: Visitor


	3. Visitor

Visitor

There was something oddly ironic about sitting outside Pentonville Prison. Moriarty had once opened the doors here with a single text message and yet, six years on, his executioner was languishing behind bars.

Annoyingly, Mycroft didn't say a word as he sat in the car opposite Sherlock, waiting for him to get out.

There were twenty-two minutes of visiting time left.

Turning the badge over and over in his hands, Sherlock narrowed his gaze at it, trying to see what John might see.

"I do have meetings today, Sherlock," Mycroft said into their heavy silence.

"I asked for the car, not for you to babysit me," Sherlock replied half-heartedly. It was a poor shadow of their usual conversations, he thought tiredly.

In an unusual move that lacked any subtlety, Mycroft checked his watch and then sighed.

Annoyed by it, Sherlock reached for the car door.

"Going in?"

"Not staying in here," Sherlock corrected as he stepped out of the car.

Outside it was windy and his coat immediately caught in the breeze. Staring at the building, Sherlock folded his arms and narrowed his gaze at the visitor centre.

* * *

John didn't know about the fire. Thankfully. Mycroft had made it clear that after…after the last time he and John had seen each other that John had refused visitors of any sort.

"You're late," the woman at the desk told him as she typed in his details.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Would you like an explanation about-"

"I have visited before," Sherlock snapped. "I do not need someone to hold my hand."

The glare he got really didn't bother him in the slightest.

* * *

Once through the main wooden gate, Sherlock made his way to the visitors' area. A burly, tired-looking guard stepped out to search him.

It was a cursory search but the patting still made Sherlock wince as it caught a few of the not quite healed burns. His arms had taken the worst of it and he had to stop himself from flinching at the rough hands smoothing down his sleeves while they inspected his coat.

When they emptied his pockets, Sherlock caught the look that was directed to him at the sight of the sobriety badge.

Once they decided he was not smuggling anything in, they nodded him through.

* * *

As he looked around the visiting room, Sherlock almost missed John.

His hair had grown. It had been in need of a cut when he'd been incarcerated but now it was longer than Sherlock had ever seen it. It softened him somewhat, made him look younger.

John was staring at a spot on the table. He wasn't shifting or looking around in irritation. Just staring as if the left corner of the table contained an almighty mystery.

Not entirely sure what to expect, Sherlock sat down opposite John. Slowly, the dark gaze lifted, fixed him with a hard look and then skittered away to one of the windows.

"Why are you here?"

John sounded…utterly and completely uninterested in the answer.

It threw Sherlock completely. Anger he could have understood, he'd even expected that. He'd hoped for…reactions he had no right to hope for and had prepared himself to be disappointed.

Never had he had to deal with indifference from John before.

Unsure, Sherlock slid the badge across the table.

John's gaze flickered down and a flash of something passed across his face, far too quick to be studied.

"One month," Sherlock said, in case John hadn't read it properly.

John looked back at the windows.

A flash of fear shivered through Sherlock.

"Ava," he added, pulling the long letter she'd written for John out of his coat pocket. "She wrote it for you. Her spellings have taken a nose dive. I will address that during my first visit."

Next week.

It had to be easier than this one.

"Visit?" John asked almost half-heartedly as Sherlock placed the letter on the table.

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft and I are working on…we're fixing it," he said, the words making him wince even as he said it. "We're trying."

_We_ are, he wanted to say. It's won't be your burden this time. Instead, he watched as John studied the letter but didn't reach out for it.

Whatever John saw made him close his eyes.

"John?"

No response.

"Fine," Sherlock said, sitting back. "I'll sit here all night until you look at me and-"

John looked at him. There was no battle or sighing or puff of annoyance.

Anything to get Sherlock away quickly.

That hurt. More than anything. More than fighting and cruel words.

John wasn't fighting, at all.

The realisation shook him enough that he had to look away from John…or at least this wrecked version of him.

"I refuse to lose you," Sherlock said firmly, trying to steel himself. "Either of you."

John looked unmoved. "I think it's a bit late for that," he said dully as he stood. The guard strode over, but John stared down at the two objects on the table as if undecided about something.

He reached down and picked up Ava's letter.

The badge he left.

Sherlock stared blankly at the table as John and the guard walked away.

He'd left it.

He ducked his head down, dragging his fingers through his hair.

John Watson would have told him to fuck off. John would have asked about Ava, demanded to know where she was and how she was. Even refusing to see him would have been preferable.

The final straw was that John had hesitated to pick up the letter.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

* * *

_**November 30**__**th**__** 3.05am: **__John, please, hit me, scream at me, but not this. Not this, please._

* * *

"Did you talk?"

Sherlock twisted the badge between his fingers as he sat at the window. "No," he said, staring down at the object in his hands.

"I assume the good doctor shouted?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He barely said a word."

"Sulking?"

Sherlock looked up and out of the window; at the darkness and the shadows that danced in the wind.

"I'm not sure," he said quietly.

* * *

_**November 30**__**th**__** 6.10am **__It is not too late. It can't be._

* * *

_John stared at him as if he were stupid._

"_One of us was always going to get bored," he sneered. "Bored of picking up after you, sorting out your mess."_

_Ava nodded as she drew. "Don't want to keep moving," she muttered._

"_You won't have to," Molly said, stroking her hair. In her other hand she held a bag of blood, his blood that he had once given her. "You're mine now."_

"_She isn't yours," Sherlock snapped._

"_Have some blood," Molly said with a sigh. "Paint a murder for us. There aren't any good films on."_

_He stared at the blood dripping from his hands and watched as it stained the pavement in front of Bart's._

"_I don't care," he muttered. Moriarty's body flashed into view at his feet, broken from the fall. "I don't care."_

"_No," John replied. "Neither do I."_

_Sherlock spun around. John was looking up at the roof, at Sherlock's figure as he stood on the edge._

"_Ignore him," John said to Ava as he turned away. "He'll never learn."_

_With a careless shrug, Ava turned away. There was a sickening noise behind him and, when Sherlock turned, his own broken body lay with Moriarty's._

"_See?" John said to Ava frankly. "Ignore them and they go away eventually. Tea cakes?"_

* * *

Sherlock sat up, breathing heavily, shaking.

His face was damp.

* * *

_**December 1**__**st**__** 02.00am **__You told me once that you didn't ever want me to be ignored. Is this punishment then? Just tell me if it is._

* * *

He booked another appointment to visit two days later.

* * *

It was even worse the second time. John refused to look at him and so Sherlock found himself talking.

Endlessly.

Inanely.

He talked about Mrs Hudson, about Mycroft, about the support group and Lestrade. He talked about the things he had read and how he was playing the violin and trying to remember how he had learned so he could teach Ava.

He deliberately didn't mention give more detail. He didn't mention how she was or what she had been up to-

Ask me, he thought as his voice grew dry. Ask me about her. Yell at me for talking about trivialities and ask me about her.

Nothing.

When the visitor's bell sounded John's gaze remained on the floor.

"I have to go," Sherlock said.

Nothing.

He stood slowly in the hopes that John would try to get in a parting shot.

Absolutely nothing.

Outside the room he paused and leaned against the wall, needing something to hold him up.

* * *

_**December 3rd 01.13pm**__: Please, John._

_**December 3**__**rd**__** 02.03pm **__Tell me what this is._

* * *

After the meetings with John, Sherlock stood outside Molly's flat feeling oddly nervous. A social worker stood next to him. He watched as she knocked on the door.

What if Ava was angry? Or wouldn't talk to him-

The door opened and, before anyone could say a word, a blonde bundle of energy flew out the door and leaped into Sherlock's arms.

God.

He held her close, wrapping his daughter up as tightly as he could, breathing her in and wishing with all his heart he could simply turn around and walk home with her. Ava's hands pulled at his coat a little as she dug her fingers in and buried her face into his neck.

"Are we going home?" she asked him in a tiny whisper.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not today," he whispered back.

"Tomorrow?"

He stroked a hand through her hair and shook his head.

* * *

Ava had grown an inch.

A full inch.

He sat on Molly's far too soft sofa with his daughter in his lap as she leaned her head against his chest. They were slowly working through her reading book together.

"What's this?" she asked, her small finger rubbing one of his newly healed scars from the fire where it peeked out from the cuff of his shirt.

"A burn," he said simply, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Did Daddy fix it?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and held her just a little tighter. "Another doctor did," he said softly.

Across from him Molly, who had been talking to Amanda, the blessedly quiet social worker, glanced over with wide, sympathetic eyes and a worried, warning glance.

Did she really think he would explain all the gruesome details to his six-year-old?

Ava peered at the scar. "Did they do a good job?" she asked seriously. "Will Daddy be okay with it?"

Sherlock nodded, giving her a weak smile. "Stop trying to get out of your reading," he said in an attempt to divert her attention.

She shifted on his lap. "I have to check," she told him seriously. "Daddy would tell me to. You need looking after," she added in a scolding tone.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and laid his cheek against her hair.

Her Daddy really didn't care at the moment.

* * *

Outside, he leaned his head against the wall as he listened to Ava cry.

"I know this is hard-" Amanda started to console him.

"You have no idea what this is," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes closed.

* * *

_**December 5**__**th**__** 06.51pm:**__ She cried. She cried because she couldn't come home_.

_**December 5**__**th**__** 07.13pm: **__Pills ar__e gone. I'll get her home._

* * *

"Another appointment?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock got off the phone.

"I need his support," Sherlock replied, pacing. "To get her back, I need John to give his blessing, to agree that she should be with me. He needs to know-"

Something odd flickered in Mycroft's face and Sherlock stopped, staring determinedly at his brother.

"I…" Mycroft swallowed. "John, I…be careful about placing too much on his shoulders."

Sherlock stared at him.

"You…what did you say to him?" Sherlock asked, his voice dropping.

"He was the only one who could make the decision," Mycroft said, sounding unhappy with the idea. "I didn't enjoy-"

"What did you-"

"I asked him to decide whether I should let you take Ava to Baker Street when I knew you had used."

Sherlock felt something drop.

"He said yes?" he asked, stunned.

"I underestimated what it took for him to make that decision," Mycroft said quietly. "To feel that powerless. He-"

"You underestimated?" Sherlock breathed, stepping forward, suddenly livid. "You underestimated? You asked him to choose between me and Ava and he-" Sherlock cut himself off, stunned.

John had chosen Sherlock, had placed every ounce of faith in Sherlock that he would do the right thing.

_I trust you._

Was that what he had been talking about? Sherlock had thought it was about the drugs in general, but the fact that Mycroft had offered to keep Ava, that he had forced John to decide…

"Get out," Sherlock said, trying to keep absolutely still.

"It was his decision to make," Mycroft said, standing his ground. "And only his."

Sherlock felt his head shake and wasn't entirely sure if it was due to rage or denial. "You should have told me," he hissed. "The choice he made…" Still stunned, he trailed off.

His brother's eyes watched him sadly. "We've all made difficult decisions lately."

Sherlock's vision blurred.

Horrified, he turned away, trying to hold onto the rage, that snapping spite he knew he should lash out with to show he was still the same man.

But he couldn't find it. Instead all he could find was…

Sorrow.

"He's won," Sherlock said quietly as he sank down into the chair. "Even dead-"

Silence.

Then: "You give him too much credit if you think that. James Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. This is merely the aftermath. It will fade."

Sherlock shook his head, staring at the rug. "John is in prison for years, Ava fostered, my work gone-"

"And the flat was burned, your landlady's action unforgivable in your eyes. Yet the flat is now a few weeks away from being liveable again and you have settled things with Mrs Hudson. Things can be fixed, Sherlock."

John's blank stare haunted him. Ava's sobs.

Without a word Sherlock stood and walked out.

Mycroft let him go.

* * *

The walls were white.

He sat on the floor staring at the wall. Under his hand were new floorboards.

Slowly he clawed at the wood, listening to the way his fingernails dragged. The faintest marks appeared where his fingers had been; whiter, paler.

Had he expected to see the bloodstain there, simply hidden by a layer of wax?

The flat was blank.

Upstairs has been largely untouched. The purple paint John and Ava had spent a weekend layering onto the walls was still-

Sherlock smoothed his hand down the wall.

_"Look!" Ava launched towards him as soon as she spotted him. "We're painting," she told him, waving the saturated brush dangerously close to his coat._

_Thankfully, John caught her with a deft hand and spun her up into his arms so that her head lay on his shoulder._

_"I can see," Sherlock replied, eyeing up their work._

_Ava wriggled a bit and John obediently let her loose again, watching as she darted away from them to the paint pot in the corner._

_"You should escape," John said after a moment of watching her. "You'll be covered in paint if you stay up here much longer."_

_Sherlock nodded, but then something caught his eye on the opposite side of the room._

_I believe in SH_

The door closed behind him.

"Here," Mycroft said, tapping at the bottom of the corner by the door with the umbrella.

Reluctantly, Sherlock turned.

There, in the very bottom corner, almost hidden, was the faintest mark.

A biro penmark. Shaky handwriting that must have been guided by John's hand.

_We believe in Sherlock._

Crouching in front of it, he stared.

A hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing.

"Mourn," Mycroft said quietly, letting go. "Then stop wallowing. It's unbecoming," he added as he walked way.

* * *

Next Chapter: A Happy Occasion


	4. A Happy Occasion

A Happy Occasion

"You should wear a tie."

Sherlock paused at the door before turning to his brother incredulously.

"I said you _should_," Mycroft replied as he read the paper. "Not that I expected you would listen."

"You are attempting to give me fashion advice?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his gaze. "Next week cannot come soon enough," he muttered as he wound a scarf around his neck.

It would be heaven to have his own space again.

"Agreed," Mycroft replied, his tone suggesting that his own thoughts on the situation were similar enough. "You are aware that you can play the violin during the day when people are awake?"

"You are aware I don't care?"

Sherlock lifted the overcoat he'd been using for the winter months. If someone had told him he had a chance of surviving the fire then he might have ensured the Belstaff was safe before he lit the match.

"Are we having a visitor?" Sherlock asked snidely as he shrugged into the coat. "Your cook seems to be in the process of baking sugary things."

Mycroft sighed. "Must we argue over my diet? I thought we had covered that topic comprehensively over the years."

"How you manipulate world leaders is beyond me. You are a terrible liar."

* * *

Molly was having a church wedding.

It was the type of occasion that made him want to smoke. The last time he tried the smell had immediately taken him back to that room, to the heat-

It was a travesty that he'd managed to put himself off smoking.

Instead he watched from the graveyard as the wedding party arrived at the church a short distance away. Molly's dress was a little over-decorated but she looked happy. And the bridesmaids-

There. Ava. Her hair was tamed into neat curls with a little halo of flowers and she was wearing an ivory dress picked up with a deep red.

The other two bridesmaids were keeping a close eye on her. She seemed to be the flavour of the month. When they turned to go into the church, Ava looked very serious, as if her task had been drilled into her. She fidgeted a little, looking at her feet as they went in.

Sherlock waited a few minutes before following.

* * *

Weddings were dull.

Church weddings even more so.

He'd lost track of Ava; she was one of the few children present and was blocked from his view by the people and pews.

_I promise to love, honour and cherish-_

Sherlock stared at the joined hands of Molly and…whatever his name was.

He loved John.

Cherished him.

Honour?

Had he honoured John's wishes?

_"I trust you."_

No.

It was a kick to the gut. He loved John, loved him so much that they surely had to end up together; that was what happened to people in love, they stayed together. But…

_"I just think that there is something that won't work when we get back to normal."_

John's words. They'd never even had a chance to find that out. They'd never-

A small person lifted his arm and wriggled under. Without even looking, Sherlock felt a smile creep across his face.

"You should be up the front," he murmured to Ava even as he tightened his grip around her shoulders.

"It's boring," she complained in a fierce whisper, clearly trying to assure him. "I've heard it before. We practiced. A lot," she added with a sulky frown.

Turning to her, Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You lost your flowers," he added quietly.

She shook her head and pointed to the ring she'd placed on the seat next to her. "It itches," she mumbled, rubbing at her hair.

"Mm," he said noncommittally as he lifted her onto his lap. In front of him, one of the guests turned their head, obviously hearing their whispered conversation and trying to unsubtly communicate their displeasure.

Dullard.

"Are you and Daddy going to get married?" she whispered to him, leaning her head back onto his shoulder, apparently oblivious to the disapproval of the woman in front of them.

He flinched.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I…" He took a deep breath. "I did something very bad and stupid. It upset him." He said the last so quietly that he almost hoped she didn't hear it.

Ava nodded sympathetically. "I upset Daddy once," she confessed. "We had a fish and I thought it had been in the water too long. Daddy was really upset but he was better the next day."

The truly awful hat the woman in front of them was wearing started to bob in disapproval as she shook her head, still unwilling to fully turn around. Sherlock snorted in amusement.

John had told him that story once. Ava had left out the fact that it wasn't their fish but that of their neighbour and John had to go out and find a fish that looked alike as a replacement.

And she apparently also hadn't picked up on the fact that, apart from having to replace the fish, John had found the whole thing hilarious. Ava had been baffled that fish could breathe underwater but not in air.

"And you're his boyfriend. He can't stay mad at you for long," Ava added thoughtfully.

_I'm not though._

Sherlock stayed silent.

* * *

"Why are you wearing that?" Ava asked as the guests stood to manoeuvre for the pictures outside.

From across the room, Molly smiled when she spotted Ava with Sherlock and waved away the bridesmaids' attempts to get their living doll back.

Why did anyone wear anything, he thought as he looked down at the little girl. "Why are you wearing that?" he asked, nodding at Ava's own little coat.

"Where's the nice one?" she persisted, ignoring his attempt at maieutic discourse.

The nice one.

Strange. It was just a coat, nothing more and nothing less, yet…there was something about it that was his, that was the man he had been once upon a time. A consulting detective who could fix anything, find the clues and provide answers.

That man had lived in a messy, experiment-laden flat with a skull, a doctor and body parts in the fridge.

That man would have snorted in disgust at the idea of doing something as stupid as burning down the flat for any reason other than the practical application of science in order to gain data.

Then again, that man would have been baffled as to why anyone would be upset with the removal of a child.

"It…" What? What could he say? "I had to throw it away," he lied.

Ava's eyes widened in horror. "Why?" she wailed, sounding miserable. "I wanted it."

Feeling the odd, sad smile upon his face, Sherlock stroked a hand through her hair.

"Will you get a new one?" she asked hopefully.

Unsure of how much he was meant to say to her, he looked around and felt a pang of relief when he saw that the photographer had organised most of the adults. "You are needed for the picture," he said, pointing at the group.

His daughter turned, looked at Molly, and then leaned into him, biting at her lip thoughtfully. "I want to stay here with you," she decided, looking up beseechingly.

He crouched down to study her face. "I'll be here when you finish," he said gently.

Ava's lips pursed. "Pinky promise?" she offered, holding out her hand. "Chris taught me," she added solemnly. "It's the most important kind of promise."

Chris.

In everything that had happened, Sherlock had forgotten about him. The man who tucked Ava in at night, the surrogate father figure.

Biting back the snapped retort that rose to his lips, Sherlock simply obeyed and linked his finger with Ava's much smaller one, shaking on it.

As Ava ran over to Molly, Sherlock stood back up, all of his attention now on Chris, who grinned at Ava as she dashed over to them.

What did he really know about the man?

Christopher Thomas. His sister was a mousy woman with an overbearing husband, her second by the look of things. Mycroft had mentioned that he was a registered foster carer for his nephews, which meant at some point the children had been put in a place of concern. An office worker: subtle signs of RSI in his wrists, meaning he spent a lot of time at the computer-

How had he met Molly? Sherlock hadn't cared particularly about it before (as long as it wasn't another criminal mastermind being introduced as her boyfriend, Sherlock had little cause to think about Molly's romantic encounters) but now…

Parents. One. Father. Distant relationship, both in terms of geography and sentiment. Northerner. From the how he interacted with the children, the man seemed to have a good relationship with his two grandsons and treated Ava like a little princess.

Annoying. He couldn't offer Ava grandparents. Well…there was Mrs Hudson. And Mycroft was old-fashioned enough that his mentality was akin to that of a seventy-year-old man.

Cousins were unlikely too. Mycroft loved his career and had extricated himself from three or four romantic entanglements that had threatened to become something more.

With an aching heart, he watched as Chris held his daughter and Molly leaned in close for a photograph with their bridesmaid. Ava giggled at something the photographer said and Molly fixed the jaunty angle of the flower circlet upon Ava's head.

Mother. Father. Cousins. Grandparents. Siblings likely to come. A ready-made family-

But not theirs.

John. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft. Lestrade. Sherlock. Ava. Father, grandmother, uncles.

Lestrade.

Sherlock looked away from the church. Opposite, the hotel where they were having the reception was readying for the party.

Molly.

Ava would like to be the oldest, he thought as he watched the staff adjust the red carpet. She'd like to be still included by Molly when Sherlock took her back.

There wasn't a chance he was leaving her with them. Whether or not it was the right thing to do, he was far too selfish to actually do it. The moment he could have her back-

But he could accept that Molly would be needed. A mother figure of sorts to discuss…what… fashion? Maybe not, not with her style. But her love life-

No. Maybe not.

* * *

"How are you?"

Sherlock nodded. "She's well," he said, nodding towards Ava. They were in the reception hall. surrounded by artfully arranged tables. Two harried-looking servers were putting the final touches on the buffet at the front of the room. Ava and the two nephews were running in between the tables, occasionally darting underneath the cloths as the guests talked and waited to be seated.

Molly reached out a hand and touched his elbow. "Sherlock?" she asked sincerely.

He shook his head. "My brother drilled me about appropriate wedding conversation."

"And you listened?" she asked with some amusement.

"It is not-"

"Sherlock."

With a sigh he looked away. "I want her back."

"I know," she said, sounding a little sad. "She's a lovely little girl, Sherlock. You should be so proud of her."

"I am," he said. "But one day, Molly, John will be released and he will take her back."

"It can't be that bad-"

"He didn't take my sobriety badge," Sherlock said, hating how pathetic his voice sounded. "I had hoped…" He trailed off as Molly's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I had hoped that he would see the effort, that it would be some way of breaching the gap between us but…He merely endures my visits. Mycroft must have interfered in some way to get him to agree to them at all. He doesn't say a single word and it isn't stubbornness. It's disinterest-"

He bit down on his tongue to keep more words from spilling out.

Molly stared at him, then pulled at his elbow to take them out of the room.

"Why-"

"Listen to me," she said quickly. "Have you had a psychiatrist-"

"I do not need-"

"Does he?"

Sherlock blinked. "What would the diagnosis be?" he snapped sarcastically. "Even I can tell you that it's because he is done with me-"

"Sherlock-"

He pulled away. "I need John's blessing to get Ava back. At this point I imagine he'd exchange anything with me to be left in peace."

"And you don't see anything wrong with that?" Molly asked suddenly. "With John giving you Ava just to be left in peace?"

"I'm hardly going to perform open heart surgery on her, he knows-"

"The reason why she was taken in the first place?"

Sherlock made himself freeze, not entirely sure what he would do if he didn't. "Tell Ava I said goodbye," he said woodenly as he turned away.

He ignored her calling after him.

It was only when he was about to leave the hotel that he bumped into Chris. From the smell wafting off him, he was returning from a chat with a smoker.

"Leaving already?" Chris asked, his voice far too polite to be believed.

Sherlock moved to sidestep him, but the interfering idiot merely moved with him.

Smirking, Sherlock stepped forward. "Do not think for one second that I am intimidated by you. John let you throw that punch last time, neither one of us would have a problem with handling you."

Chris swallowed. "Have you said goodbye to Ava?"

No.

Looking away, Sherlock mentally berated himself.

"She deserves-" Chris started to continue.

"More than what she has," Sherlock agreed. "But you will not be the one to give that to her."

Chris stared at him blankly. "You think I could?" he asked, sounding baffled. "All I hear all day long is how you and John do things, how funny and brave and silly the pair of you are. She's a lovely little girl, but she isn't mine. She's yours, through and through."

It was hateful that he felt relieved, that he couldn't just shrug the man's words away. He wanted so much to appear in control, finally, and now…

It was like being rocked with a reprieve.

And strangely…permission.

"Of course she's mine," Sherlock said, straightening up. "It's baffling how a woman as moderately intelligent as Molly stooped to you," he added, turning on his heel to return to the hall.

Who was looking after Ava tonight? Had they been vetted? By whom?

They were going on honeymoon. Obvious from their shoes, but for how long? Who would have Ava then? If it was that mousy sister and her obnoxious husband then Sherlock would camp out in their kitchen, make no mistake about-

Mycroft.

His brother stood at the doorway with Ava, talking to Molly.

"Sherlock," Ava said when she spotted him. As she ran to him, her delight was evident. He scooped her up and settled the six-year-old on his hip. "Where did you go?" she asked in a demanding manner.

"Out. I wanted air," he said, walking over to his brother and Molly. He hoped…

Mycroft nodded. Once.

"How will this work?" Sherlock asked carefully as he joined them.

"Ava is staying with me. You are welcome to extend your stay. Social services have been alerted and will be visiting to check on us all."

He should have thought about it, should have organised it, not Mycroft.

He hadn't been fighting for her.

Tired, Ava gave a yawn and rested her head against his shoulder. "Are we staying for dinner?" she asked hopefully. "There's cake."

"Fruit cake," Molly said, watching them fondly. "Mycroft has chocolate cake."

Ava immediately perked up and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, the message clear.

She was staying with him.

* * *

He hadn't let himself miss this. Getting Ava ready for school, taking her to the gates, listening to her chatter about the wedding and passing judgment on Chris' ability to use public transport.

From what she said, the man truly needed lessons.

"What do I need to do?" Sherlock asked when he returned.

Mycroft looked up. "Fix the flat, find a way of proving that you will have a steady income. And references to support this. Recommendations from both support group leaders and two psychologists to say that you will not place Ava in danger. Molly and Chris' opinions on this matter will help-"

"And John?" Sherlock asked slowly. "His opinion?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "As long as John does not oppose you having custody we do not necessarily need his recommendation. You do need people to show their support. Teachers-"

"Mrs Parker likes me," Sherlock protested.

"- do not seem to be an issue," Mycroft finished with a glare. "If you are asking for my advice on these matters, Sherlock, it really would be beneficial to stop interrupting me."

Sitting back, Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "John," he decided. "He may be the biggest obstacle."

Mycroft blinked at him. "John?" he asked blankly. "You believe he will be that petty?"

One way to find out.

* * *

It was different this time. Sherlock had requested the private interview room and, after being checked for anything suspicious, sat inside to wait for John.

It had been a few weeks since the last attempt. Pathetically, he had hidden from the notion and tried to avoid thinking about how clear it was that John no longer wanted him.

Even thinking it hurt.

The door opened and John walked in, reluctance clear in every step that he took as the door closed behind him.

"What do you want?" John asked. He didn't even take a seat.

You.

"We need to discuss Ava."

For the first time since his incarceration some emotion showed on John's face. He looked away and then, as if steeling himself, walked to the chair across the table from Sherlock.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor was enough to make Sherlock suck in a nervous breath. Slowly, John settled down and took a breath.

"Where is she?" John asked.

"With Molly and her husband."

John blinked and then seemed to dismiss the question as to when Molly had married.

"Three days ago," Sherlock said, answering it anyway. "At the moment, Ava…she is staying with Mycroft."

John sat back in the chair.

"And me."

John squinted at that. "You and Mycroft?" he asked, looking down. "Things have changed."

The scars on his wrists almost burned as Sherlock eyed John up, unsure of what to say to him. If he told him about the fire he might think…

But it would come up. If social services had a meeting with John it would have to come up.

"I burned the flat."

John's head shot up in surprise. "On purpose?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Why?"

Why? Was John joking? Why? Gaping, Sherlock stared at him in horror. "Can't you work it out?" he asked.

John stared at him and then shook his head, as if annoyed, pressing his lips together.

That was it?

Hurt, Sherlock stared at his hand resting on the table. Not that he had done it for sympathy but…some reaction, any reaction would have been…at least reassuring.

"I want custody of her," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice from wobbling with nerves.

John looked up at the ceiling, still shaking his head.

"She should…" Sherlock pressed on, despite the heavy feeling in his chest. "She should be at home, with me."

"In the flat you burned," John said in a toneless voice.

"It's nearly repaired," Sherlock said quietly. "I…I need to make reparations with the Yard, start taking on some private cases to provide for her-"

"And who'll look after her while you do that?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Another whim, is it?" John asked, dropping his hand on the table.

Another-

Infuriated, Sherlock leaned forward. "Whim?" he snarled. "Whim? This is our daughter-"

"My daughter."

It hurt.

"Please, John," Sherlock said, feeling something sink within him. "Please-"

"Why?" John asked, sounding almost bored of the discussion. "What will happen the next time things don't go your way?"

The next time?

"Exactly what is it about this situation that you think is going 'my way'?" Sherlock mocked. "You hating me? Ava being with Chris? Living with Mycroft? The cases-"

"Ah," John said nodding. "Well…I'm sure the Yard will need you soon enough."

"Did you not hear?" Sherlock breathed. "You. You and Ava come first-"

John simply shut down. He looked away at the wall behind Sherlock and said nothing. Gave away nothing as if he had simply walled up all of his thoughts and locked them away from Sherlock.

They sat in silence, Sherlock not sure what to say and John clearly not wanting to say anything.

"Why are you here?" John asked again in a weary voice.

"Will you fight me if I try for custody?"

The laugh was utterly humourless. "What the hell could I do from here against you and Mycroft?" John asked bitterly. "Besides, my judgment is hardly reliable."

"Social services will ask you," Sherlock said slowly, not entirely sure what to make of John's attitude. "You could…if you really wanted to you could stop me from having her."

John opened his mouth and then seemed to think better of what he was about to say.

"What?" Sherlock asked, trying to coax John out. "Tell me."

"Mycroft could avoid that happening," John said, staring at the floor. "Them, coming here."

"You believe I would do that?" Sherlock breathed. "To you, of all people?"

John almost shrugged, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I…if you're doing it by the book and they think you'll be a good guardian then…" He jumped his gaze to another spot on the floor. "As I said, my judgment isn't the best."

It should have been a moment of relief. The one hurdle that Sherlock hadn't been sure he could overcome had flattened before him but-

There were things he desperately wanted to say to John, words and touches that should be given, but he wasn't sure how. There was a line between being confident and being forceful and he had no idea where to draw it. It was like dealing with a frightened animal that had been hurt one too many times before.

_"And you don't see anything wrong with that?" _Molly's voice rang through his head_. "With John giving you Ava just to be left in peace?"_

Was John listless because of Sherlock or because he was actually suffering from some sort of depression?

"What about Christmas?" Sherlock asked softly. "Ava-"

John stood, not looking back as he walked to the door and knocked on it.

Sherlock closed his eyes when John asked to leave.

_It was me_, a loud voice confirmed, even as a smaller, deeper voice wavered in concern.

* * *

That night Ava was sitting up in bed, hands clutching at something when Sherlock came in to tuck her in.

"Can we read this?" she pleaded, showing him the book.

_The Hobbit_.

The book he had thought John was reading, the one he had started with Ava just to feel as if John were still present.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded, settling onto the bed as she snuggled into him. "Where have you read up to?" he asked as he turned the pages.

Ava peered up at him. "You don't remember where we were?" she asked petulantly.

Sherlock looked down at her. "Have you not been reading this with Molly and Chris?"

Ava shook her head fiercely. "Only you're allowed to read this to me," she announced, tilting her chin. "It's our book," she added in a solemn tone.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to her head as he found where they had stopped and began to read.

* * *

The following morning, Sherlock had his head in his hands as his brother sipped his coffee.

"You must focus on the positives of your meeting with John," Mycroft began.

"I need a babysitter," Sherlock muttered, rubbing at his forehead. "I need to find someone to look after Ava. Someone-"

"Someone who lives downstairs and did it before John was imprisoned?" Mycroft asked, turning the paper. "Unless you were thinking of me," he added, dropping the pages slightly to fix Sherlock with a look. "I am not a nanny."

Mrs Hudson?

"But…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "John was usually around-"

"To cook?" Mycroft asked, lifting the paper and seemingly relieved that they'd decided to focus on Mrs Hudson instead. "Hardly. To pick Ava up? Not towards the end. She loves Ava and is more than willing. I checked."

Interfering nitwit.

Sherlock sat back.

Ava would return to Molly at the start of the school holidays. Christmas was a good time for easily solved crimes of passion and suspicious spouses wanting their other halves stalked; he could find a number of cases to build up to those references he needed. The therapy sessions would require more of an effort (annoying) and he would be in the flat after Ava left. He could work on making it a home again.

Plenty to keep him busy and plenty to focus on and help him ignore the gnawing pain in his chest that arose every time he thought of John.

* * *

Next Chapter: A New Year - Sherlock takes on his first case while Molly has some concerns.


	5. Cold

Cold

Stomping off the snow, Sherlock stepped into the old storage room down in the basement of Scotland Yard and turned on the lights.

Rows upon rows of boxes appeared and he drew in a breath, slightly taken aback at the sheer volume.

Cold cases.

When he'd decided to do this he'd had a plan for it. He'd searched the records and found the ones that still had family members checking in every few years or so, hoping for a breakthrough or a new lead. The list of names were on the piece of paper he held. It was now a matter of finding the corresponding evidence boxes and searching through all the old paperwork.

It was likely to be tedious work, largely pointless and unglamorous. There would be no audience, no one to insult as his mind snapped from one problem to the next. There would be no one at his beck and call to trawl though the boring elements like reviewing phone records or tracking down oyster cards' frequent destinations.

Patience. He would have to learn it. Here, where no one but he could witness his failure and his struggle with it.

Sherlock glanced down at his list and then up at the rows.

Starting with A seemed prudent.

* * *

"I thought you could decorate it," Mrs Hudson said as Sherlock stared at the white walls.

He turned to her, incredulous. His expression apparently said all he needed it to, as she sighed and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, I don't live up here," she scolded.

It was all too new. Too clean and neat. Too…

White.

He sighed in frustration, wishing he could just recreate the flat as it once had been.

Though if he were wishing for things…

Waving a hand in Mrs Hudson's direction, Sherlock stalked to the window and stared out across the street. One of the properties across the road was for up for sale again and the odd car drove past below. At the end of the road, a worker was having a row with a van driver.

Life went on.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath and then stalked to the mantelpiece. Upon it was the knife that he had used to keep the post together; evidently Mycroft had instructed the workers to keep what they could.

He picked up the knife, weighing it in his hands, then drew out one of Ava's letters from his pocket and drove the knife through one of the top corners, pinning it to the wall.

Vaguely better.

Mrs Hudson tapped her foot on the floor. "You're not shooting my bloody walls again," she said, sounding firm.

What would he do it with anyway? John's gun was gone.

* * *

Visiting Ava at Molly's again was difficult.

The social worker had visited when Ava was at Mycroft's house and had seemed satisfied with both Sherlock and Ava. It was beyond frustrating to accept that it would take at least another month or two before Sherlock got anywhere near having her returned to him.

And it was almost Christmas.

They'd only spent one Christmas together and, back then, Sherlock still hadn't cared for Ava the way he did now. It seemed so unfair, the one year he'd had her he hadn't even realised how precious-

He shook the thought away. Now was not the time to be morose about the situation.

"Sherlock," Ava squealed with excitement as she spotted him. "I decorated the tree," she told him proudly.

It was a multi-coloured mess. Her enthusiasm made him nod and smile as he dug into his pocket.

"I believe it is missing something," Sherlock said slowly.

Ava looked horrified as she whirled back to the tree, her curls already coming loose from the French plait Molly had obviously slaved over.

"I made the angel," she said, as if not sure what else to say.

Was that what it was meant to be? Ah, yes, wings…was that red streak meant to be the mouth? Or a wound?

Nodding, he closed his hand around the bauble and held it out to her.

Their pink bauble.

Ava stared at it. "But what about your tree?" she asked solemnly.

"I'd like it to be on yours," Sherlock said, neatly trying to sidestep the conversation that he was not having Christmas decorations up if there was no one around to suffer them for.

Ava reached out for it and then smiled. A huge, big smile that made Sherlock helpless to do anything but smile back at her.

Taking the ornament, Ava scampered over and studied the tree, as if deciding the best position for it amongst the chaos.

"We need a word," Chris said quietly as he walked over.

"About?"

Chris seemed to hesitate. "John hasn't sent anything."

Sherlock turned, tilting his head.

"No card. No letter. Has he asked you to buy anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said as he tried to get his head around the idea. Of course John would send Ava something. He'd simply have to ask-

But Chris' mouth was tightening and he shook his head as if judging-

Sherlock turned away, determined not to scream bloody murder at the man for daring to pass judgment on John. He had no idea what John was going through-

Stomping into the kitchen, Sherlock paused over the table, trying to draw in a deep breath.

"It's his daughter," Chris said, the moron having followed him.

"He is dealing with a lot-"

Chris snorted. "Christ, no one in the world but John Watson can make a mistake. I am so bored of-"

"One more word and nothing else will ever pass your lips," Sherlock hissed at him.

Chris glared at him. "Fine. But you aren't the one that's going to be here when Ava opens her presents on Christmas Day and finds nothing from her father."

"Don't be a moron," Sherlock muttered. "I have…I'll give you two labels. One from just me and one from both of us. If nothing turns up from John simply stick label b onto the present."

"And a card?"

"Easily forged. Again, simply have it as a back-up."

Chris nodded. "Fine," he said, standing up straight. "The threat was hardly necessary, was it?"

"Nor was whining about John," Sherlock snapped as Molly walked in.

There was an awkward pause.

"Ava wants to show Sherlock the angel," Molly said slowly. "Chris, would you help her get it down?"

With a last wary look at Sherlock, Chris walked over to his wife and gave her a gentle kiss, then walked out the door.

"Ava's present-"

"We have discussed this," Sherlock snapped. "I have back-ups should-"

"I know," Molly said with a nod. "But can we discuss the fact that you think a back-up will be necessary?"

It was not a subject he wanted to dwell on. Frustrated, Sherlock looked down at the floor, trying not to think of John. John walking out when Sherlock had mentioned Christmas and Ava.

He had thought it was point scoring at first but…slowly, dreadfully slowly, he was starting to wonder.

What if John wasn't just reacting to Sherlock? What if he wasn't just angry?

What if it were more?

"You know there is something wrong with him," Molly said softly when Sherlock stayed silent in response. "John would never do this to Ava if he were in his right mind."

Sherlock shook his head, not entirely sure what he was shaking it about. The idea that John… He was so together. He could cope with anything, he could weather any problem, survive any odds. The idea that maybe he hadn't, that he wasn't battling this at all, was terrifying.

"Sherlock," Molly coaxed, reaching for his hand.

"If he… If it is not just that he is angry with me…" Sherlock stared at her hand, so small in comparison to his own.

"I know," Molly said, placing her hand over his. "I know, Sherlock. But if it's not just… He needs help."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "And if it's both?" he asked. "If he needs help but…" He looked away and at the tiny window. "I don't know how to help him, to push him without damaging him further. I've never…" He drew in a breath. "He's always been the one to fix things."

Sherlock was the one to ruin them. It was the way of their odd partnership.

Molly squeezed his fingers. "It's John Watson," she said softly. "Of course he needs you. And you'll find a way, Sherlock. You always have."

It had never mattered so much before. And he'd never tackled such a task without John at his side. What if-

Then Ava was flying in, the misshapen angel in her hand as she waved it at him. "Here," she said, thrusting it at him as Molly moved her hand away and stood aside for Ava. "For you."

Sherlock frowned at the thing. "I don't-"

"For your tree," Ava explained. "I have something of yours so you have something of mine."

It was on the tip of his tongue to explain that he neither had a tree nor a desire for one but…it was such John logic that Ava was using. The worry that someone might be without. The thoughtfulness to include.

Nodding, he accepted the angel. "Thank you," he said to her sincerely.

Ava hugged his legs and grinned up at him. Dipping his hand down, he stroked soothingly through her hair, the French plait a thing of the past now.

She deserved to have something from John.

* * *

It felt like going into battle.

Armed with his weapons, Sherlock strode into the visitor's room and headed for John. His hair was still growing out, a little tousled at the ends, and he still looked up at Sherlock without expression.

_Look past it, _he hissed at himself. _Look past the sentiment attached. What do you see?_

There was a reason he hadn't looked. It was painful to admit that, as he took a seat, the man in front of him was barely functioning. How could this be his John? The man who laughed and yelled and cracked jokes at the best times? How could this be the man he shared his bed with, his life with? Who had shared his daughter with Sherlock?

"Pick," Sherlock said, clicking his tongue on the 'k' as he spread the Christmas cards out on the table. John looked down and seemed to blink in surprise.

"For Ava," Sherlock explained, looking at them. "Unless you've already sent a card."

There.

There was a flicker of emotion. Guilt or surprise. Bafflement.

"It's Christmas?"

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock swallowed back the wave of sheer emotion that reared up at that question. "Yes," he said, staring at the table.

John's hand hovered over the cards and then dropped to the table. "Any will do," he said dully.

He was avoiding making a decision.

_"I underestimated what it took for him to make that decision," Mycroft's voice echoed quietly. "To feel that powerless."_

Sherlock looked over John's head at the guards. At the room.

In prison most aspects of your life were controlled. Routine, meal choices, activities. Even, to some extent, who you socialised with.

No choices.

Was that helping or hindering? Comforting or consuming?

John hadn't made a decision about Ava either. He had implied he would follow whatever social services said.

Sherlock drew in a breath.

Did he wait? Did he push John now? But if he did then there was a chance there would be no card, that another fragile link between Ava and John would be severed.

Slowly, and completely unsure that it was the right thing, Sherlock pushed one of the cards forward to John.

"Pen?"

It was a sharp object but a guard brought one over, standing close as John hesitated over the card. Five times John tapped the pen on the card before he started writing. The more he wrote the more his shoulders started to relax. Sherlock watched him.

He wanted to kiss him.

It was stupid. John was…in nowhere near the right frame of mind or place but part of Sherlock just wanted to gather him up, pull him in until nothing could touch John. Until nothing could hurt him or put the tension back in his shoulders. Sherlock wanted to soothe, to comfort and reassure.

But he had no idea how to do it. And he wasn't allowed, not anymore.

John seemed to have written a mini essay. It was tempting to ask him if he wanted another card but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that John wouldn't think he was being sarcastic and he had no chance to try the question out and remedy his tone. But John got to the end of the card and signed it, looking as if he was on the cusp of asking-

Then John slid it back to Sherlock, the card left open to allow the ink a chance to dry.

"I could get a…a New Year's card for her," Sherlock said, relatively certain that someone had made something that ridiculous. When he'd been in the shop there had been cards to pets for Christmas, for heaven's sakes.

People really would buy anything.

John looked startled and then nodded slowly.

"And um…" Sherlock touched the back of his finger to the words on the card and checked that the ink was dry. "I'll ensure her card to you gets here before Christmas."

John said nothing but stared at the card.

_Would you like one from me?_

The question wouldn't come. Far too pathetic for his liking. He should get a collection of them, Sherlock thought. That way John would have a few to open and could dismiss Sherlock's card easily if he wanted. He could see that people were still thinking of him. Last year they'd had many-

They hadn't even lasted a year together.

How could that be possible?

Hating the thought, Sherlock placed the card in the envelope and passed it back to John to address. "Her present?" he asked quietly.

John shook his head. "I…I don't…"

"I… She seems to have gotten into baking, between Molly and Mrs Hudson. I…" Sherlock swallowed nervously. "Someone suggested getting a play kitchen thing. And a book. Recipes. Mrs Hudson suggested one. That's her gift, she added a note that she would teach Ava how to make some. But…acting out and imagining cooking on her own is a good way of solidifying what she learns. And books. Story books. I checked. None have mentions of heights or kidnapping. That would have been asking for trouble." He was rambling terribly. "I could… You could have the kitchen thing. Seems more like something you would buy anyway."

"You went shopping?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have had time on my hands." He fished out a gift tag. "Here. I can stick it on the present when I get back."

John stared at the tag and then slowly looked up at Sherlock.

_Please._

He wasn't even sure what he was begging for. Just…something.

"I was going to get-"

Conversation? Sherlock tried not to suddenly perk up, not to scare him off but even as he registered the start of the sentence, John trailed off, seemingly lost in his own world before he shook his head, dismissing it.

"Molly… She wanted to know if there was anything that she should put in Ava's stocking."

"Chocolate orange," John said sounding a million miles away. "And chocolate coins. I always…I used to put a few pound coins at the bottom and pretend that Santa Claus couldn't make up his mind what she'd prefer, real money or chocolate."

He'd missed that ritual, last Christmas. He hadn't cared enough to pay attention.

"And a bracelet," John said. "Some cheap…Harry always wanted one in hers so…"

"I'll get them," Sherlock promised.

John stared morosely at the Christmas card he'd just addressed to Ava. "She'll be too old for it when…" He trailed off and looked away.

What could Sherlock say to that?

"But not for you."

John pushed the card back to him.

"I'll be back in a few days," Sherlock said, taking the card. "With that card."

"Right."

No.

Sherlock blinked in shock at the bitterness in John's voice as all the progress they'd made suddenly vanished. He'd assumed he shouldn't push too hard but the second he indicated he would leave, John had clamped back down; he could see it in his body language. Any interest or wavering hesitation had fled, leaving nothing once more.

He wanted to say something to fix it, to nudge at John, but it was too late. John nodded to the guard and handed back the pen, expressionless again.

There was that saying, wasn't there: two steps forward, one step back?

Even that seemed a bit too ambitious at the moment.

* * *

There was one last thing he needed to do, to take advantage of the so-called 'Christmas Spirit'.

The office was dark as he walked in; a few officers were there for the night shift or writing up reports. As expected, given he had just finished a lengthy case, Lestrade's office was lit up behind the blinds.

Time was he would have simply strode in-

No. Incorrect. Time was he would never have even come.

Instead, Sherlock knocked at the door before turning the handle.

"Best be quick," Lestrade said, not looking up as Sherlock stepped in. "I'm just about to send these over to-" He looked up and stopped, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

"Did you just knock on the door?" he asked, sounding baffled.

"I came to inform you-"

But Lestrade pointed to the door. "I didn't even know you knew how to do that," he muttered, slumping back in his chair.

"You thought I could solve a murder case but not connect my fist to the door in a repetitive beat?"

Lestrade shrugged and then sighed. "I'm not giving you anything," he said, looking back down.

The conversation was….awkward. He had no idea how to start. "Mycroft gave me the key to the storage facility."

"Course he did," Lestrade muttered.

"For the cold cases."

There was a long pause as Lestrade seemed to absorb the information. "Huh," he said, sitting up straight. "Cold cases?"

"Yes."

"The cold cases that you deemed dull, irrelevant and a combination of terrible police work coupled with moronic witnesses?"

That…sounded like something he might have said. Sherlock cleared his throat, unwilling to commit to the comments.

Lestrade studied him, his posture becoming more relaxed and in control, the way it did when he was dealing with one of his younger detectives.

This was going to be painful.

_Ava._

_John_.

Sherlock braced himself.

"How long have you had the key for?" Lestrade asked, deceptively cheerful.

"Eleven days," Sherlock replied.

"So…have you come to tell me you've solved eleven of them?" Lestrade asked, twirling his pen.

Exceedingly painful. "No."

"Five," Lestrade remedied.

"No."

"One?"

Sherlock folded his arms. "They are stale cases."

Lestrade dropped the pen and scrubbed a hand across his brow. "Why on earth are you looking at those?" he asked with a sigh.

Sherlock glanced back at the door. It was tempting, so tempting to simply stride away and wait for Lestrade to forget just a little more and become just a little more desperate.

Reaching out, Sherlock shut the door.

"To learn patience," Sherlock said slowly. "And," he added, uncomfortable with the conversation, "because I am bored and you won't let me work so if I do this then you can crow about it for a few months and feel better about yourself. And then you can write a letter to social services telling them to give me back Ava."

Lestrade watched him, his mouth twisted in a grimace that could either be because he was annoyed or about to snort on laughter.

Possibly both.

"Grab a seat," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Pick a case you've been looking at."

"Why?"

"Because," Lestrade said, pushing the keyboard to one side. "You can look at photos and see what we missed, you can look at witness statements and see what we didn't hear. What you can't do is what usually breaks these cases."

Sherlock bristled at that. "It's hardly rocket science-"

"No. It's fucking tedious."

Ah. Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Abbot. Kyle. Missing for twenty years. Father calls up every five months to try and restart an investigation."

"Have you talked to him?" Lestrade asked.

"I have his witness statements-"

Lestrade held up a hand. "Talk to him. There are usually three reasons in my experience that someone calls up that much."

Sherlock tilted his head.

"Either he knows there is no hope and is holding on for fear of facing that. Or he knows something, might not even know if it's relevant but he knows something else. He might be trying to protect someone or be unsure if it will be taken seriously."

"Or?"

"Guilt."

Ah. Sherlock sat back. "And that won't be…I have no wish for you to accuse me of getting their hopes up."

Lestrade shook his head. "If they're calling that often…it won't make a difference."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Of course, they will then call you every five minutes," Lestrade said sweetly. "But you did say you wanted to learn patience."

Joy. "Is that the tedious part?"

"No. The tedious part is checking every single fact. Tracing every item. Following every lead no matter how small. It's checking for when things were bought and cross referencing. It's narrowing it down again and again until you have enough to convict."

Sherlock slumped back.

"Or, in your case, narrowing it down until you see the links. But with cold cases…you have to recheck things. It's not physically in front of you. You have to work out what to trust, what's fact."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I would swear it sounds like you are trying to talk me out of this."

"Well…" Lestrade sounded as if he were smiling. "It'd be fucking embarrassing if you got any better than you already are."

Sherlock managed a weak smile and nodded. "Good night, Inspector," he said, standing.

"I've already written a letter," Lestrade said as he reached for the door. "No matter what, I'd have done that letter."

Sherlock hovered his hand over the door knob, not entirely sure how to respond. "I…Merry Christmas, Lestrade."

"Yeah. You too."


	6. Memories

Memories

Sherlock comes to a decision.

* * *

The phone twisted around his hand as he absently stared at the chair; as if concentration upon a memory would bring it to life, just for a moment.

The book John had been reading that day, the one about the general, had been burned in the fire. Given how John had struggled and eventually given up the biography, Sherlock doubted John would be heartbroken over that particular loss.

Sherlock twirled the phone again and again, the repetitive motion not quite soothing but enough to distract his body. His mind was fixed, utterly, upon that single memory.

What would he change, if given the chance to do it again?

No handcuffs this time. John being willing, eager, a presence would be enough. This time Sherlock wouldn't be distracted by a case, by a present. This time Sherlock would be grateful for all that John offered him.

A kiss then. In the kitchen as John came in. Put the present to one side. Kiss John slowly, carefully. Taste him, feel him; alive, warm, active.

Free.

And John would reach for him, pleased at the attention and focus despite the competing mystery of the present. He might even laugh, protest that Sherlock should look at what John had found for him.

An ache grew in Sherlock's chest as he pictured it. Would John look surprised at that? At the fact Sherlock found him more interesting this time? Painful to think it, that John wouldn't be used to being put first-

Sherlock stood, pacing.

Stupid notion. Foolish to torture himself with 'what if's' and 'if only'.

The brain was a terrible thing sometimes.

Two cards on the table; Molly had given him a card from her (presumably Chris had begrudgingly agreed to have his name added at the end) and a card from Ava.

He hadn't opened them yet. As if leaving them alone might magically make a third spontaneously appear.

_**January 6**__**th**__** 2.03pm:**__ You probably don't even know what today is. Or care._

* * *

Three hours later and seventeen text messages sent to John's phone, Sherlock threw his phone against the wall and closed his eyes when he heard the damned thing disappointingly thud to the floor.

When he opened them again he stood, walked into his bedroom and opened the wardrobe, hunting until he found the damned box.

John's phone lay inside.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and hefted it in his hand as he fiddled with the charger and plugged it in.

Then turned it on.

The phone buzzed a greeting and started up. Then it started to buzz repetitively. Over and over as all of his text messages from the past few months filtered in.

There were a few that weren't his. Some army mates who'd sent messages of strength or outrage on John's behalf around the time of the trial. The odd message from the network asking him if he wanted to subscribe to the latest offer.

Sherlock went further back. Mrs Hudson's horrified apology, sent five days after, was one he deleted without thought. John didn't need that reminder.

Back and back and back until he found the last message they had sent to each other. An innocuous text about Ava's shoes being hidden in the fireplace. Apparently their daughter had felt left out that week and had been attempting to gain their attention.

It was so…domestic.

And strangely it was the thing that made his eyes fill oddly, the message that made him stroke him thumb over the screen as if it were a link to John and Ava, to the life they'd had-

Christ. Six months ago.

Six months.

Not quite, his brain corrected. Two weeks too short, give or take. And he'd had Ava until-

It had been six months since her birthday. She was six and a half.

It had been six months since he had last woken up feeling content. Had it been six months since the last time they'd had sex?

Six months since, in a fit of good temper and sheer want, he'd proposed to John. Six months since they had rolled out of bed and crashed to the floor, since John had snorted with laughter and made the world seem alive, vibrant and wonderful.

How?

He pressed back against the footboard behind him, as if bracing himself against the memory, against the pain of the contrast. The flat was silent, the clock ticking away at him as he sat with a phone.

Weeks they had spent pretending to argue. Weeks wasted. If he had known-

Sherlock closed his eyes again. If he had known this would happen he would have run. That half imagined plan that had involved John vanishing with Ava would have been put into motion, only this time Sherlock would have run with them. Damn Mycroft and Moriarty, sod the need to be seen as right.

Fuck the need to win the game.

They could be halfway around the world, buried as deep as Sherlock could manage for protection. Night. John in the bed, pulling him down for a kiss.

Wanting him.

They'd be somewhere warm; John enjoyed the summer. Somewhere exotic where the sun would bronze John's skin and keep him golden and comforting. Silken sheets. Not red, not like the hotel…blue maybe. Yes. Deep, midnight blue that would turn John's eyes the same colour.

Luxurious. They'd never had much time for it. For just lazily exploring each other, for waking up and just enjoying the feel of skin. They'd always had to get up, for Ava, for cases, for bringing down a criminal network. Even on the rare days they'd had a lie-in John had always seemed a little wary, as if waiting for Sherlock to spring out of bed and find the next job to do.

Sherlock wanted lazy. Lazy with John could never be boring.

It could have been their honeymoon. Too sentimental for them? To have a wedding and Sherlock's birthday all together?

Practical, he decided. Fewer dates to forget.

The thought made him wince. Even in an idyllic fantasy his own nature wasn't what it should be.

He thumbed through John's phone again. The man wasn't one for taking pictures with his camera; the one exception being when John had taken a few at Angelo's during Ava's birthday in July. Ava beaming over a huge dessert that Sherlock imagined John had despaired over.

The next one made his heart stop.

There was a play symbol. A video.

Swallowing, he pressed it.

Ava and John, in the chair. Ava was shifting and John winced, looking down at their daughter with an amused grimace as she showed no interest in positioning herself carefully. Her little chin lifted as she eyed the camera. Behind her, John pressed a kiss to her hair as she sat in his lap, his smile hidden by her hair but lighting up his eyes.

"Go on then," John encouraged her.

It was startling how much Ava had grown since the video. In it, she glanced up at John for confirmation, her cheeks rounder, her hair shorter and softer. Blonder.

Six months since John and Ava had spent time together.

"Mystery," Ava announced, looking pleased with herself. "M." She bit her lip, seemingly deciding something as she looked back in John's direction. "Y?"

John's smile grew and he nodded against her.

"S. T. E. R. Y." Ava's eyes moved in John's direction as she paused, as if waiting for him to tell her to try again.

"Well done," John said with a nod.

Ava wriggled in triumph. "Deduce," she said, moving on to her next word. "D.E.D.U." She paused, her nose wrinkling up before she looked down, a finger drawing lines into her jeans.

She was writing out the word.

"C," she decided with glee. "E."

John looked even more amused as he leaned over to sip some tea, the screen tilting them slightly as the hand holding the phone to record the scene tried to balance his movement. Craning his neck, John took a deep sip and then returned the cup to the side table, the screen evening them out again. "Well done," he said, settling back with the air of someone who had gone through the spellings to death and was trying to remain interested. "Can you remember the other word?"

"Obvious," Ava said, sounding less confident. "I can't remember the end," she added, looking crestfallen.

"You've done well," John praised her. "Want to have a go?"

"O," Ava started, sounding a little unsure. "B. V." Her mouth formed the word as she tried to sound it out and work out the next letter. "E?"

"I," John corrected. "No 'e' in this one."

Ava nodded thoughtfully, her nose wrinkled in concentration. "O.S?"

"Need a 'u' in there," John said, shifting her a bit so that she was sideways on his lap and they could see each other. "Pretty impressive though," he said with a proud nod. "If Sherlock ever needs a bit of spelling done I'm sure you'll-"

The thing cut out.

Hissing in annoyance, Sherlock flicked to the next picture in the gallery.

It was just a picture of a crime scene.

He flicked again. And again. And again.

No other videos.

He needed more than just a few minutes. He needed….Why the hell didn't John record more often on his phone? Why didn't-

Why hadn't he known that Ava and John were using his words for her spellings?

He flipped back to the video and played it again.

And again.

And again.

Every time it finished he damned John for turning off the camera so soon. Every single time until the unwanted thought overwhelmed him.

He had no videos on his phone. No pictures.

Nothing but those from crime scenes.

* * *

By midnight John's phone was back in the box, the video sent to his own phone.

He'd texted another seven times.

Stupid.

* * *

The following day, on almost zero sleep, Sherlock attempted to bury himself in the cold case storage unit. Surrounded by boxes of files designed to keep the door shut and the world away, Sherlock peered through the documents until the words started to bleed into his brain. The names of the missing or dead merged into a meaningless list as he flicked through, searching for something, anything interesting enough to occupy his mind.

Any other day, any other time, he would have hunted down a dealer. The fact that he knew where three were hardly helped.

Not again. Never again. Not while there was breath in Ava and John.

Throwing a file to the floor next to him, Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, trying to find some relief from the incessant buzzing in his head, born of being too long inactive; too long helpless and useless.

Too long without-

Opening his eyes, Sherlock stared at the door, feeling numb to everything in the world.

Eventually, he stood and left.

Waste of time.

* * *

There was a man sitting outside 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock stopped before the man saw him and gave him a cursory glance, trying to decide if it was worth turning around and sneaking into Mycroft's spare room. One option seemed as bad as the other.

It was urgent. Speedy's was open and most people would simply nip into the café and buy something while they waited. His coat was practical and wrinkled at the bottom from a train seat; not a local then.

A case?

It would be his first client since he had returned from the 'dead'. Clients were always so much easier; they came to seek his expertise and would therefore bite their tongue and nod along far more than anyone else would.

Money.

He had to support Ava somehow when he got her back, for however long that would be. If he worked now, he could save and not have to compromise time with her in order to pay the bills quite as much.

How had John done this while Sherlock was dead?

Not for the first time, Sherlock shook his head at the idea, even as his feet started to move towards the potential client.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, jumping up as Sherlock headed for the door. "I-"

"Inside," Sherlock muttered, brushing past as he drew his keys out of his pocket.

* * *

The man, William, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. He was perhaps a little younger than Sherlock, certainly a great deal more naïve as he shifted nervously. Not used to being in unfamiliar locations so not someone who was used to dining with clients. Yet he seemed to be of an affluent background… Sherlock looked at the designer jeans and carefully ironed shirt.

A country business…possibly family run?

It appeared that Sherlock had forgotten the rules of entertaining clients; before he left, it had been John's area to deal with their nerves and clingy need for reassurance.

The silence stretched on and on.

"Is there a reason you're here, Mr Lawrence?" Sherlock asked, eyeing him up.

William swallowed nervously. "I…I read about…uh…" He shifted. "Your partner and-"

Sherlock tilted his chin, waiting and ready.

"…I…" William sighed and dug his hands into his coat pocket. "My wife, she was…" He swallowed and looked away. "She um…"

"Died or killed?" Sherlock asked.

William looked stunned at the brutality of the question. "She was murdered," he said with the air of one expected sympathy.

Sherlock waited.

"They're accusing me," William breathed.

"Because of the affair?" Sherlock asked calmly.

William's mouth dropped. "I would never-"

"Don't make me list the obvious clues," Sherlock muttered. "It's decidedly less fun now that I have lost my main audience."

_That's brilliant._

Sherlock shook the distant voice away as he waited.

As if conceding the point, William looked down at his shoes and took a breath. "I…Our marriage had some issues," he confessed. "We…" He frowned. "Drifted apart."

"And had an affair," Sherlock pointed out, folding his arms.

William scrubbed a hand over his face. "It wasn't…it wasn't sex," he said awkwardly.

Dull. "As if that constitutes an affair," Sherlock muttered as he leaned against the table. "Your paramour? Are they likely to have-"

"No," William said strongly. "No."

Sherlock studied him for the longest time, trying to decide how much was blind faith and how much was practical factual knowledge.

He seemed very certain. Blinded by love or guilty?

"Names?"

William blinked at him in surprise. "What do you-"

"I need the names. I will look into it." Sherlock looked over William's head. "Weigh up if it is worth venturing into Market Harbour for."

"How did you-"

Seven years ago, Henry Knight had asked the exact same question in the exact same tone. And seven years ago John had been there to roll his eyes as Sherlock let loose a stream of deductions.

Unbidden, Sherlock's eyes drifted to the corner of the room they had sat in. It looked so different now: far too new, clean. A blank slate.

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the half spoken question. "You came here for my services, you must know my methods."

William nodded slowly. "You'll help?"

Help?

At least it would be something to do. Something to achieve, something to fix, one way or the other.

Even if it was outside of London.

* * *

"I have a client."

John did not look impressed by the news. "Do you?" he asked mildly, sounding as if he couldn't possibly be any more disinterested in the conversation.

Sherlock hesitated, unsure whether to talk about it for the sake of something to talk about or to steer away from the subject.

That being said, after so many months of John's disenchanted attitude, Sherlock was eager for any reaction.

Mycroft had emphasised how vitally important it was that neither of them throw their weight around at the moment. They truly had to let all interest in John die out and that meant avoiding any put-upon guards going to the press or any newly released prisoners finding a way to complain about favouritism. They had managed to suggest that John see a psychologist but John refused to speak during the sessions and the prison wasn't terribly concerned about a prisoner who was neither being abused or doing the abusing.

In short, unless John co-operated, there was very little that could be done.

"He's been wrongly accused of murder," Sherlock said slowly.

"Well…" John tilted his head. "Wrongly accused…That has to be annoying."

Sherlock had the distinct impression he was being humoured. "I'm not going to stop pushing for the therapy," he muttered, folding his arms. "No matter how much small talk you make."

John shrugged. "You're not my flatmate or my next of kin. You're running out of reasons to let you interfere."

"No, I'm not."

John looked away, shaking his head. "Just go," he said, his voice almost a whispered plea.

Unsure if John could even see it, all Sherlock could do was shake his head. John must still have been able to glimpse Sherlock in his peripheral vision because he closed his eyes, as if pained.

"I won't do it again," Sherlock added, his voice so low he was almost amazed that it was audible. "The drugs. I won't-"

"You can say that now," John murmured, opening his eyes and rubbing at his forehead with his hand. "Nothing is going wrong."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. Desperately, he searched John's face. "Tell me this is your sense of humour returning," he said after a moment.

With some bafflement, John dropped his hand down and looked at him questioningly.

_Nothing is going wrong?_

"John…" Sherlock breathed, "I've lost everything. And…I don't even know what I've managed to do to you. How can you possibly think things could get any worse than this?"

"You could turn up again next week," John said, meeting his gaze.

It hurt. Not sure how emotional pain could possibly feel so much like being stabbed, Sherlock sat back in his seat, almost recoiling away from John as he stared at the table, trying to get his thoughts in order.

"You aren't coming back to me," Sherlock said slowly. When he looked up, John had fixed his gaze on the door, a tiny twitch in his jaw all the response Sherlock was going to get, apparently. "I know that," Sherlock said, trying not to think about how much John's words hurt as he regrouped. "I know…but I will keep coming, John. I will not leave you-"

"Because it's what you want," John snapped. "Not me."

Oh.

Sherlock stared blankly ahead and then nodded, standing as if it were the first time he'd ever attempted the action. With an awkward nod, he turned and left the room without another word.

In his pocket, the three month sobriety page burned mockingly.

* * *

"Need a 'u' in there," John's voice said for the fifteenth time.

Sherlock paused the video. The look in John's eyes captivating him as they stared at Ava with love and amusement.

His fingers stroked over the screen.

"_Because it's what you want, not me."_

Was that it? Was he holding on because of him or because of John? Was he meant to walk away or stay?

John was depressed. But was he more depressed because of Sherlock or less?

Sitting back, he stroked the side of his hand over his mouth.

Space.

He could give John some space. Perhaps ensure that their conversations only focused on Ava for a time.

It felt like he was giving up.

Giving up on John or giving up on them? Giving up on them or letting John go?

There were so many variations. So many possibilities without any clear outlines.

Ava.

One at a time, he thought with a deep breath.

One at a time.

* * *

Chapter 7: Of Cases and Custody

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End file.
